To Hold With Those Who Favor Fire
by Iridescent Individual
Summary: Sequel to In the Forests of the Night. Dean isn't giving up on Castiel, and Sam isn't giving up in general.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N 1: As promised, here is the sequel to In the Forests of the Night. You should probably read that first.**

* * *

"So, uh…" he jerks his thumb towards the door. "I'm gonna go get food, you want anything?" The room is dark, except for the lamp on the desk, and the addressed party doesn't even look up.

"Grab me a burger." Dean doesn't thank Sam for offering, not that he'd ever expect it. But standing awkwardly in the doorway of a seedy motel, he feels a stab of irritation at the lack of acknowledgement. Or maybe it's guilt.

It had been several months since his brother and Castiel had disappeared as they took down the leviathan, leaving Sam feeling lost and abandoned as Crowley flashed him a smile that was entirely inappropriate for the situation. The mildly insane angel popped in and out of their lives in a seemingly random fashion already, so a sudden disappearance wouldn't have been unprecedented. Or, Sam had considered at the time, unwelcome. Their association with him had brought so much chaos and trouble that if he had vanished for at least a little while, it might have been welcome.

But Dean was gone too, and that had thrown the whole scenario from the realm of 'okay' directly into the center of 'not alright at all'. Interrogation of Crowley had gone nowhere (the demon had hightailed it as soon as it became clear Sam was not in the mood for his usual tricks) and research had done nothing. The fact of the matter was, short of making the weapon again and finding another leviathan to stab with it, or dying in a particularly bizarre fashion, Sam couldn't even find a way to get to purgatory, let alone get someone out of it. None of the biblical texts were at all relevant (most of them went on about repenting and becoming a better person to ascend to heaven, which sounded nice but probably applied more to dead people) and there wasn't much mention of it in the tomes that were oriented towards monster hunting. It seemed that no one had actually gotten out once they got in, and if anyone had they weren't the book-writing type.

It had been about a week of poring through books and calling up contacts night and day before Sam had silently sworn to himself that he was going to write a guide to all this crap if he survived to retirement. He owed it to the next person stupid enough to sign up for this.

Had he signed up for this? Born into it was more likely. A family curse (maybe a literal one) that he couldn't escape, because disaster was always nipping at his heels and tearing holes in his heart if he dared to stand still. But even when there wasn't a pressing disaster on their hands, like now, he had to keep hunting. For monsters and for his brother. He owed it to Dean, to everyone. By all rights, Sam shouldn't be here, he should be locked up in a cage with Lucifer, he should be batshit crazy instead of Cas, he should be dead.

But everyone had kept going, protecting him and helping him and making him owe them until he knew that he could never, ever give up until he was too old for this, and even then he'd be writing that damn book to help the next guy because he couldn't bear to let all these people who had given so much for him down.

And he had let Dean down.

Again.

His cell phone had vibrated on the desk next to him, as the night wore on and he stared blankly at the words as his eyes burned. Rubbing at them, he flipped the phone open to hear a voice he had begun to worry he'd never hear again, and even as Dean spoke he was standing up and walking out to the car. Knowing that he was driving to wherever he was without sleep and without stopping no matter how far.

Because goddammit, if he couldn't get him out of purgatory he was getting him as far away from it as he could, even if that was only a twenty-minute drive to a library, a piece of irony in itself because of all the places Dean could have gone Sam had no idea why a library was his first choice.

He didn't ask. Even now, more than a week since they were reunited, Sam is hesitating to question Dean and his choices because no matter what he is doing, it's not like Sam has ever made better ones. It's not like Sam has ever been this unselfish and helpful and has any sort of high ground, moral or rational.

He failed Dean again.

So if Dean is sitting awake trying to figure out a way to rescue Castiel, night after night, Sam won't say anything. He didn't give up on Dean, but he failed him anyway.

So Sam isn't going to tell Dean to give up on Cas. Because if he feels he owes it, somehow, to the angel, then maybe he's right.

And, he figures, Cas is pretty lucky.

Because Dean doesn't fail people.

* * *

Dean sits in the motel room, flipping through a dusty, leather-bound volume that has a promising section on the afterlife. It has given sound advice before, although mostly on other topics. But he prays that it can help them again, help him, with this.

He starts to think, _please let this be the right book please_ before he remembers how ridiculous it is. Hoping won't change the words that are printed on the yellow-edged pages, and there is no higher deity to help him even if there were a way to rearrange the typewritten letters into something useful. Chapters on good deeds and crossroads demons that at other times would be his saving grace feel like a waste of ink as the number of pages in the section dwindle. Holy water, consecrated ground, _come on come on_ as he turns the page to a section entitled _Ghosts, Phantoms and Spirits_, and he can almost feel his heart plummeting as yet another possibility vanishes into thin air.

Frustration and the permeating feeling of failure cause him to hurl the book across the room. Sam will probably have something to say about his treatment of the text, but Dean can't really bring himself to care at this point. Every second here is incalculable time in purgatory, and every time he turns a page Castiel could be taking another step, shoving a hideous monster away from him, letting out a ragged breath as blood soaked his coat…

No. He has to believe the angel is still alive, still moving, still surviving.

Otherwise he will have let Castiel go completely, and he can't do that. Not now that he's forgiven Cas for what he did to Sam. He'd tried so hard to put it right, too. Tried to regain Dean's trust, even once his mind was broken from trying to help Sam, he'd joined them in taking down Dick. Even if the mess was his fault, he'd given the last thing he had, broken newfound principles to take down the threat, and been thrown to purgatory with Dean for his troubles.

And then he had given everything again to send Dean home, confining himself to the forest that would forever haunt Dean's dreams. _A self-imposed exile_, Dean thinks, and then wonders where he'd heard the phrase. It applied itself to the situation, a foreign term, but growing more accurate the more time he spends considering it it.

Castiel might have been able to escape, but he didn't. He'd sent Dean through, assuring him that he no longer thought of himself as a monster. But even now Dean doubts the validity of that statement. Even as he said it, Castiel had stayed behind in the forest, a place for monsters and monsters alone.

Whatever he said, some part of Cas didn't think he was worth more than the beasts who preyed upon them, that he deserved to be hunted down and left to die.

Dean isn't about to let that happen.

Standing up slowly, wincing slightly at the cracking joints, he walks across the room and retrieves the fallen book. He sets it on the table, silently promising to look through again tomorrow, even though he knows it will be yet another exercise in futility.

Sam isn't back yet, and Dean steps outside to wait. His eyes sweep over the cars in the motel parking lot below him, the ones that fly down the highway farther away, the streetlights, the neon signs.

He turns his eyes upward to the sky, settling his gaze on the smattering of stars that can still be seen through the light pollution and the cloud cover.

Castiel will see these stars again. Dean will make sure of it.

Until then, Dean will just have to see them for him.

* * *

**A/N 2: Not sure how I feel about the first chapter, so let me know what you think through reviews. I'm especially uncomfortable writing Sam, so tell me how this could be improved and what you hope to see later on. Thanks so much for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ****Sorry for the long wait. Updates will be sporadic for the next two weeks, before everything goes back to normal around here. Please review!**

Sam trudges across the dimly lit lot after parking the Impala. Correctly, to avoid both tickets (attention from the authorities is never a good idea) and potentially irritable other patrons (Dean will kill him if the car is keyed or dented, even if it isn't his fault).

He swings the paper bag from the drive-through loosely at his side. It hadn't taken long to drive the two and a half blocks and order at the otherwise deserted window (the poor girl who'd gotten stuck working the night shift was half asleep), but he'd taken his time. The night is cool but not icy, the chatter of people and hum of city lights is comforting, and the music of his iPod (no Dean, no dreadful music) sure beats the awkward silence that permeated the hotel room.

Even so, he's not regretting returning now. The night is growing colder and the people are growing fewer, and a childhood fear of the dark that has only been fostered by his later experiences usually drives him home (as much of one as he has, anyway) before the clock strikes twelve.

It's a bit later than that now, but it's easier with Dean around, because even though Dean has seen far more monsters than Sam has, he is not afraid of the dark. Appropriately wary of it, sure, but not afraid. Sam used to wonder if Dean was afraid of anything, but he knows that his brother is. Dean is not infallible.

He stops before he hits the stairs when he sees Dean's silhouette on the balcony. Craning his neck, he tilts his head up to stare at the sky, because Dean is fixated on something and he doesn't know what. Sam doesn't see anything, so he clatters up the stairs instead.

Sam is not as clumsy as his ascent would indicate, where every step is accompanied by a clang of metal. Dean had appeared to be in a sort of reverie, fixed on the sky, and Sam would rather be teased for sounding like an elephant than risk startling him.

"Hey," Sam says, as he comes up behind him. "Brought food."

"Took you long enough," Dean says, turning around and heading back towards the room, but it doesn't have any actual malice in it. Just teasing in the only way Dean has ever been able to tease him. He's a little surprised when he doesn't immediately start mocking him for the cacophony on the way up the stairs. Maybe Dean is a little grateful the Sam thought to alert him he was coming, he considers as he follows him inside.

"And dude, that was the most noise I've ever heard anybody make coming up a set of stairs," Dean's voice drifts back to him. "I'm surprised nobody called the police, it's like cannons going off."

Nope, same old Dean. Sam grins faintly as he hands over the bag. He wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Dean can recognize the sound of the Impala as it pulls into the lot. He'd be a pretty poor car owner, he figures, if he didn't know what she sounded like after all these years. It is, he decides, a nice sound. Even if he's not the one driving her (and he will insist on driving her, when they move next, it's been too long that he hasn't been) he's missed having the car around. It is, in its own way, a return to normalcy.

He watches Sam park her and get out, but tilts his head up towards the stars again as he disappears beneath the balcony. They are so bright, so hopeful, so beautiful. He will never take them for granted again.

The peaceful sound of the night is interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the metal stairs. He winces slightly at the first step, as apparently the noise he must have made on his way down didn't stick in Sam's mind enough for him to be wary of the ascent. The following ones were quieter, but not much.

He didn't bother turning around, even when the sound of footsteps stopped and he could feel his brother's presence behind him. It was only when Sam spoke that he reluctantly tore his eyes from the heavens and follows him inside, teasing him about the time it took him to get the burgers (not much) and the noise he made on the way upstairs (probably intentional, knowing how careful Sam has been not to startle him this past week. He's fine, dammit.)

Sam settled in the crappy desk chair that Dean had previously occupied, so he perches on the edge of the bed. Sam tosses him a burger, and he tears into it as Sam eats his more quietly. He grins to himself. Some things never change.

"So," and Sam broaches the subject that has been the proverbial elephant in the room all week. "Are we going to get a move on?"

Dean hesitates to answer, and so Sam plunges forward. "It was probably just luck you came out here, or some sort of freaking Impala homing beacon magic thingy," he reasons. "There's nothing that ties a purgatory exit to Nashville, Tennessee. And if we keep going, we could stop by some experts, see if anyone knows, look for more books…" Sam starts appealing to Dean's urge to _search_, to feel as though he's actively doing something to help instead of just paging through books they've picked up along the way and that have littered the Impala's trunk ever since.

Dean is reluctant to move on. This place, the library he'd stopped in, the dirty ravine he'd found himself in, are the last ties he has to purgatory, and by proxy, to Cas. The last time the angel had left, he'd been angry, but he'd had the trench coat. That stupid, dirty, bloody trench coat. A cheap trench coat, too. But it was quintessentially Cas, and even if he'd hated his guts at the time it had helped to have something he could hang on to.

Now, he didn't hate Castiel, and he wondered faintly why he had. Of course, he knew _why_, but he didn't understand _how_. Aside from Sam, Cas was the closest thing that he had to family. He couldn't leave him to suffer, and he couldn't let him die.

He'd forgiven Sam for drinking demon blood, for going behind his back with Ruby, for everything. Now he'd forgiven Cas.

He just hoped he hadn't done it too late.

* * *

The night is dark, and he is alone.

He doesn't dare stop moving, because it became clear shortly after Dean left that he could not stay for long, at the altar (is it an altar? He'd silently named it so in his head without thinking) or in any one place. The glow that had momentarily swept the area as Dean disappeared (escaped, was freed) had drawn the creatures of the forest there, and subsequently to him. He is almost certain that some of them still have his scent and are nipping at his heels, ready to strike should he let his guard down in the slightest.

Or maybe he's paranoid. But he doesn't dare risk it.

He runs, mostly, because he can't shake the feeling that something _terrifying _is following him, and he can't tell if it's a product of his imagination or he's actually sensing something in the trees or if it's Lucifer in his head, and he keeps running because he's never let his imagination run away with him before and that something could eat him and because he has nothing else he can do to get away from his own mind but run. It almost helps, with the loneliness and the fear, to keep moving, because then he feels like he's doing something.

If he's not doing something, he might as well just sit there and wait for the beasts to crawl out and devour him.

That would be bad.

The thought of them coming for him makes him quicken his pace, hurtling through the trees even as the brambles catch on his coat and tear at his skin and his injured leg protests the violent movements. His feet skid slightly in the mud, but he stumbles forward and keeps going, only pausing to catch a branch and steady himself when his toe catches on a particularly twisted root. The rustling from the branch when he grabs it startles him and sends him sprinting off again.

He has made it another hundred yards or so before it occurs to him that the rustling wasn't a threat, and a full two hundred before he processes it and slows to a hasty walk. He doesn't think to be ashamed of the overreaction—there is no one here to see it, unless the monsters are watching through the bracken, in which case it wouldn't be an overreaction in the slightest.

He hears a rustle in the bushes (or maybe it's his imagination) and takes off again. His leg aches dully and drags slightly behind him even when it isn't getting caught on branches and trees. He shoves through the foliage, looking at nothing and for nothing. There is no light to guide him now, no God.

He stops, breathing ragged, gripping a tree to stay on his feet. He will be running again in a moment.

For now, he tilts his head upward and prays to no one.


End file.
